A remembrance of things past

I flew to Bangkok the day after the murderous blast that killed over 20 people and injured scores of others in what has been described as the worst ever violent incident in the city.

News of the blast in the center of town brought me back 44 years, to the night of Aug. 21, 1971. I was a reporter then but I was also very pregnant with my first child so I watched the coverage of the political rally of the Liberal Party in Plaza Miranda on our black and white television at home. I was shocked to see the stage in chaos, after several grenades were thrown from the crowd.

Nine people were killed and 95 were injured. I believe one or two media men were among the fatalities. Most of the leaders of the Liberal Party were injured, Senator Jovito Salonga being the worst hit. He lost an eye and his hearing in one ear. Ramon Bagatsing lost a leg. Other party stalwarts Gerry Roxas and his wife Judy, Ramon Mitra, Serging Osmena, Eva Estrada Kalaw and Eddie Ilarde landed in hospitals.

Ninoy Aquino, who was not in Plaza Miranda when the grenades were lobbed onto the stage, was livid and blamed President Marcos for trying to decimate the political opposition.  Ninoy was spared the violence of Plaza Miranda, but he would figure in another bloody Aug. 21, 12 years later. If Plaza Miranda ushered in martial law, the killing of Ninoy Aquino on the tarmac of the Manila International Airport was the beginning of the end of Marcos’ control over the country.

Ninoy Aquino was a force of nature but he turned out to be a more powerful force dead than alive. His martyrdom galvanized the Filipino people to fight for our freedoms by kicking out the dictator.

The post-assassination period brought Ninoy’s kid brother, Butz Aquino, to the fore. An entrepreneur and a stage and movie actor with no taste for politics, Butz was suddenly put on center stage as a surrogate of his kuya, Ninoy.

I had met Butz some years back when I was in college and he was a stage actor whom Fr. Reuter brought in to play my virtuous betrothed in a school play. Butz was larger than life, a major presence in a cast of convent schoolgirls whom he liked to tease with his worldly ways. But he was also the caring big brother who saw to it that we all got home safe every night after rehearsals, even if he had to drive us home himself. So it was a kind of reunion we had in Times Street during Ninoy’s wake when he herded a group of journalists to a bedroom in the house to seek our advice on how to keep alive the people’s grief and anger over the assassination.

In a crowd, he looked confident but confessed that he felt kind of lost. He had no idea what his brother had been doing, his political moves and commitments, but people would talk to him as if he should know. A group of Moro leaders whispered conspiratorially to him about Ninoy’s promise to them, to which he nodded, in his best portrayal of someone who knew what it was about.

It could be embarrassing sitting with him at dinner with activists where he referred to the left as “commies” and “reds.” But Butz was easy to like, and he was a charismatic leader who could get anyone to join a mass action, so they either chided him good-naturedly for his Cold War vocabulary or they let it pass.

He was everywhere leading long marches, running marathons, attending rallies and funerals of victims of martial law. He was ever friendly to the media and was always available for a quote or a voice clip. On the night that the EDSA revolution began, his was one of the voices people heeded to occupy EDSA.

He went on to enter politics as senator and later congressman. But Butz remained just Butz, loud of voice, tight of hug and big of laughter. He must have gone back to being a businessman because after a while, he was no longer visible. The last time I saw him was several years ago at Power Plant where I ran into him one Sunday. He called out to me, “Paredes!” his voice reverberating in the large hall. He said he wasn’t feeling too well, pointing to parts of his body that were giving him problems. But he was argumentative, trying to rile me with his strange political views. Still it was good to be hugged by good old Butz.

Butz left us last Monday, after a long illness. Goodbye old friend, kuya, and fellow street veteran. I will always be able to summon your booming voice in my head, with that charming Pampango inflection that your Ateneo education and your years on stage could not erase.